Weekends

Weekends are the love, free of flaws;

Weekends are the grey sky

Leaking rains like melted silver streams,

Weekends love and exaggerate feelings,

Weekends are the shortest period

Where our hopes are still nourishingly alive.

The boy who loves crayon pencils,

Gasps with the ponderous books on his shoulder,

Waits restlessly to drive in the pool of his artistic world

And weekends give him the wings.

Weekends are a little bit of relaxation

For the maid, shy and broken;

Bent with the burdens

Of little monthly fees and scarcity of grocery.

Weekends are the new hope

For the girl to recover her diseased father,

And carry the pressure of her poor family.

Weekends are those incessant hands

Of our mother try to steal some hours to rest.

Weekends are the time to explore possibilities,

Weekends demand a busy father's love and observations,

Weekends try to remove those hectic work schedule and trepidations,

Weekends feel most like the fresh ventilated air in a room,

And weekends conspire us in the preparation of our most creative dreams.

Though the hopes hover in the air

And still, there are plenty wandering in lack of fair,

They are the ones who don't have weekends

Or have weekends that return them with void hands.

Weekends can bring hope like an aureate ray of sun,

Or, make you fall in the puzzle only to make it another fun.